Please Don't Mention the Holiday
by illuminata79
Summary: Mick and his comrades agree that the South Pacific is not a good place and 1944 is not a good year for a particularly merry Christmas. (Rated M for some soldierly strong language.)


For what felt like the thousandth time that day I wiped at my brow with my forearm, sweaty skin slithering wetly across sweaty skin. By now, I should have known it wouldn't have the slightest effect, but the movement came automatically, like a reflex, unthinkingly.

I had always prided myself of being rather imperturbable in any kind of weather, be it hot or cold, but this was getting to me in a way I could never have imagined. There was a jackhammer at work in my head and my eyes were stinging while all of my body itched and prickled and ached.

I could no longer pick out a single sore or blister or mosquito bite. My body was just one big mass of various kinds of pain that blended into each other indistinctly and ultimately interfered with my ability to think clearly. All I did felt mechanical and weary, and I didn't even wonder any longer why I was here at all.

I could only speak for myself, but I reckoned the others weren't feeling much better, judging from their haggard faces with eyes that looked like deep black holes.

Just a few days ago, we had lost three comrades to sniper fire, which had ended a short period of relative calm during which we had even dared to believe there might be an end to all that shit one not-too-distant day.

Now we were in it worse than ever, tramping through the jungle on another recon, five men slippery and shiny with sweat and grime. No need to tread lightly, I thought darkly, the Japs would probably smell us from three miles away.

The stink of our unwashed, overstrained, undernourished bodies was the worst of it all. I would have gladly given my right hand for a nice long shower, clean clothes and a good tidy bed.

Behind me, Richard Conway was muttering to himself. I rolled my eyes because I knew what was coming. We had only heard it about a hundred times before. And that was only counting today.

"… Christmas at home, with carols and turkey and snow and a big fire …"

I prayed nobody else had heard him, but, as my prayers usually went, it wasn't heard.

"If you mention that goddamn holiday one more time, I'm gonna rip you apart so badly that they'll send your sorry remains back home in a shoebox!" Henderson, who was walking behind Richard, exploded. "Can't you shut the fuck up about fucking Christmas, for fuck's sake?"

"Yes, would you, please?" Leary echoed. "I'm pretty sure we all agree we'd rather be home and stuff our faces at Mommy's table and freeze our butts off on the way to Midnight Mass, even without you whining all the time!"

I cast a tired glance over my shoulder. Richard looked way too young to be here on the best of days, but now with his eyes glazed with tears of desperate frustration, he appeared downright babyish.

I guessed I knew how he felt, but I couldn't have him drive the rest of the squad crazy and risk a fight, so I hissed, "Cut the crap for God's sake, Connie. We're all sick and tired of all of this, and I don't want us to get sick and tired of you, too. And I don't want to hear another word about Christmas either. It's nothing but a load of overrated touchy-feely crap."

Richard's lips tightened and trembled, and for a moment, I thought he was actually going to cry, but he managed to get a grip on himself, and we trudged on in smoldering silence.

I wouldn't even begin to think of Christmas at home. I had not celebrated in ages, but there were some lovely memories buried deep down beneath the rubble of my past. Better not to touch upon them now.

With Corporal Kenny Terrence in hospital for a badly infected wound to the ankle, I had a squad to lead and no time nor use for sentimentalities, and I could not have guaranteed I wouldn't have broken into tears myself with sheer exhaustion if I had allowed myself to dwell on a storybook childhood Christmas for more than a second or two.

Our little outing proved futile in the end. There was not a trace of the enemy, not even a deserted foxhole or shelter to be found.

Not that I minded not getting shot at or ambushed from behind. If anything, my headache had become worse, and by the time we got back to the camp, my head was swimming, and at some point I actually believed I saw a dusting of snow on the leaves of the palm trees. Apparently, Richard's ceaseless Christmas talk had not only grated on his comrades' nerves but addled my brain.

I threw off my pack and rifle at the entrance of the tiny tent I shared with Joe Kowalski and sat in the meagre shadow of the low canvas structure, my head in my hands, my temples pounding with the rhythm of my pulse.

"You okay, Carpenter?"

There was a boot tip nudging my side, but I didn't feel capable of looking up to see who it belonged to. The voice was familiar, that was enough for the moment.

"Hey! I'm talking to you!"

"Hhhnggg", was my eloquent answer. I appreciated the fact that the speaker seemed concerned about my wellbeing, but talking was just too much of a strain right now.

"Anything wrong, Carpenter? C'mon, have a drink." A flask was being pressed into my hand, and I sipped from it weakly, but the lukewarm water couldn't begin to quench the burning thirst I suddenly felt. I upended the flask instead and doused myself with the rest of the contents.

For a blissful moment, it was great to sit there, dripping water from my hair and chin and the tip of my nose, but it seemed to evaporate faster than I had poured it on.

"Flaming hell, you're supposed to _drink_ the stuff, not to use it for a shower!"

I still didn't feel up to opening my eyes, but I recognized Joe's voice now.

Again, he shoved a flask into my hand, then took it back with an unnerved sigh and pinched my nostrils.

I spluttered in response.

"Are you gonna drink it now or do I have to force-feed you?"

"Geroff me, dammit!"

I snatched at his hand blindly. He returned the water to me, and I swallowed obediently until the flask was empty, taking small, deliberate sips to make sure I'd keep it down.

I don't remember anything of what happened after that.

When I came to, the air around me was still hot, but the place where I lay was blessedly shadowy. No relentless sun beating down on my head, no noise except for a low background hum of voices and the occasional cough. I didn't even stink for once, and my headache was not quite gone but no longer as crippling.

For a moment, everything was calm and peaceful and almost pleasant, despite a heaviness in my body and a vague pain in my limbs, the kind you get when you're coming down with the flu.

I shifted and drowsily opened my eyes. Dirty white canvas above my head, a row of low cots, most of them occupied.

Not hard to put two and two together now. The malaria epidemic had got me, too.

I didn't worry or even care a lot. I guessed I'd survive, like I had survived so many other things.

My eyelids began to droop quickly, and I was home in Maine again. There was Mom in a festive wine-coloured dress, holding a lovingly wrapped package out to me. Grandpa was sitting in his favourite armchair by the Christmas tree, happily puffing his pipe and watching me open my present.

I was outside in the freezing cold, building a snowman for Jess and Janie, when Nell popped out of the back door, pink-cheeked and laughing and pretty in an expensive black coat trimmed with dark fur, a garment I was sure she had never owned.

My father was sitting beside me on the piano bench, teaching me to play a carol. When had he learned to play the piano, I wondered and then flinched when I turned around to find a big crowd seated behind me, waiting for me to begin the concert. "But I haven't practiced enough! I'm not ready to play _Sleepers Awake_ yet!" I protested frantically.

"He won't want to hear what wonderful Christmases you had in Vermont!" an angry voice growled.

" _You_ don't want to hear, is all", another retorted.

"I've told you before, if you don't shut your goddamn trap, I'm gonna shut it for you!"

"HELL, PRIVATES!" an authoritative bass thundered, waking me up entirely. "You're out of here faster than you can look if you don't behave yourselves!"

I smirked to myself. Good old Doc Maloney. Count on him to sort them out, those high-strung, edgy, worn-out boys only too ready to flip their lids.

I opened my eyes and squinted at Henderson and Conway and Maloney's retreating back. "Can't you even stop quarrelling at the bedside of a dying comrade?"

"Fuck, Carpenter, that's not funny. You're not dying!" Henderson barked, paused and added a tentative, "Are you?"

"Rest assured I have no intention to kick the bucket just yet. I'm not even feeling as crappy any more. So what are you doing in here instead of enjoying all the comforts of this lovely island?"

"Just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas", Richard piped up.

Henderson grabbed his shirt front. "What did I tell you earlier?"

"That's enough, Henderson. Leave him alone and go away if you …"

"Just wanted to make sure you're OK", Richard said in a sobered tone.

"Thanks. Looks like I'm gonna make it this time", I replied, and he patted my shoulder and hurried outside without another word.

Henderson remained standing beside me, but he didn't speak either, although he looked like there was something on the tip of his tongue that wanted out. He wiped at a drop of sweat on his forehead, scratched his red buzz cut and swallowed before he finally said, "Are you really OK?"

"Could be better, but as I said, I guess I'll live."

Henderson nodded, and another uneasy silence ensued.

We stared at each other, both unsure of what to say, until Martin Kirk in the next bed sat up and began to hum or rather mangle a Christmas carol as he tried to get out of bed.

"Save that shit for when you're back home, will you?" Henderson hissed at him.

Kirk's out-of-tune version of _Adeste fideles_ broke off, and he gave Henderson an irritated look, shook his head and tapped his temple.

I could almost see Henderson's body thrumming with pent-up rage, and for a moment, it looked like he was going to vault my cot and have it out with Kirk, who could barely hold himself upright after a bad bout of malaria.

At the risk of catching one in the mouth myself, I grabbed his belt and whispered, _"Don't."_

Unwillingly, he pulled himself together.

"What is it with you and Chr … the holiday, Leo?" I asked quietly. "I'm not particularly keen on it myself, but I don't go and threaten to bash in people's heads if they as much as mention the word."

"That's none of your fucking business, Carpenter!"

I expected him to storm out of the tent in a huff, but instead, his forceful attitude crumbled.

With a dismissive wave of his hand, he sat on the floor beside me, knees drawn up almost to his ears, and said with a good deal of resignation, "Fine, then. If you promise to keep it to yourself. I've a good reason to hate that fucking holiday, and that reason's got a name. His name's Bill Henderson, or simply Dad, although I don't call him that any longer. I'm through with the bastard."

He took a deep breath, and then it simply came tumbling out of him.

"He's been a drinker for as long as I can remember, but he usually had a good grip on himself as long as nobody crossed him and there was enough beer in the pantry. Only Christmas was the big exception. Every year, he'd get a few bottles of moonshine and have his bosom buddies over on Christmas Eve. They'd drink till late into the night, and every single fucking year he was totally shitfaced by the time we'd come downstairs to see if Santa had been there. And every single fucking year, some kind of disaster happened. He wrecked the dollhouse I'd made for my sister, he threw the turkey through the closed window because he thought it was undercooked, and he knocked out my brother's front teeth for telling him to calm down, just to name a few things. We were actually glad when he _only_ stumbled and overturned the tree with all the lights lit and almost burned down the house, although he slapped me in the face when I splashed water on him as I tried to put out the fire."

"Jesus, Henderson, I …"

He went on as if he hadn't heard me at all. "Can you imagine what it's like to feel as if you're the only kid in the world who's never had a _nice_ Christmas? Everyone's always going on about how cosy and beautiful and romantic their Christmas would be if only they could be home. Mom cooking a fine feast and Dad opening a good bottle of wine and the kids singing carols and reciting poems, all the family in their Sunday best and everybody as happy as can be. The one big thing you look forward to all year long, not the night you dread the most, knowing there's nothing you can do about it because he'll either beat you to a pulp or take it out on your mother or your little siblings, which would be even worse."

"Boy, that's awful."

"Awful can't begin to describe it. There'd be carols playing on the gramophone like in any other home, but there was a war going on at our place. _Peace on earth and mercy mild!_ Yeah, sure. For other people maybe."

"Maybe, maybe not", I said quietly. "Your father sounds like he's a major jerk, but I'm pretty sure you're not the only person who's had shitty Christmases. Mine were quite nice when I was a kid, even if I missed my dad who'd fallen in the war, but the last good one was when I was seventeen."

"That makes seventeen more good Christmases than I've ever had", Henderson remarked acidly.

"Sorry for that. If it's any comfort to you, I haven't had a proper Christmas since."

"Thanks. I'm feeling much better now." He rose, dusted himself off and marched away, leaving me slightly puzzled what exactly had gone wrong in our conversation.

I wanted to call out to him, bring him back, but I didn't. I guessed he felt he had laid bare too much of what he would have preferred to hide in that dark place where all our bad experiences and somber memories go.

I felt my headache returning and lay back, closing my eyes. By the time Doc reappeared and gave me a shot of something, I had almost drifted back off to sleep.

Back to my sisters, my parents, Grandma and Grandpa, crew members of many ships I'd worked on, Rosie, Nell and her brother, the dreadful Sergeant Baldo from training camp and a couple of nameless native pearl divers, all of them featured in a tangled dream.

Only Evelyn had been missing from that jumble of images, I realized when I woke up.

I waited for the twinge that accompanied every thought of her.

There it was, twisting my stomach just a little, like a child tugging at his mother's dress as he eagerly waits for Santa Claus.

I opened my eyes and scanned the hospital for something to distract me from this hardest of all subjects.

It looked pretty much as it had before, a rickety-looking yellowed tent, perhaps fifty cots lined up in two rows in an attempt at neatness, men in various stages of consciousness dozing, snoring, sleeping or mumbling, a skinny nurse bending over a boy with a bandaged head at the other end of the tent, the silhouette of Doc Maloney's stocky figure having a cigarette break visible through the opposite canvas wall.

I turned my head to the other side, where I would be able to see a couple of palm trunks through the open tent flap and imagine a bit of fresh air wafting in.

Something rustled beneath my pillow as I moved.

I felt for it and pulled out a battered Old Gold packet that still contained four precious cigarettes.

Propping myself up on one elbow, I fingered the packet thoughtfully and noticed that someone had scribbled a note on it.

 _Merry friggin' Christmas, Carpenter. I_ _am_ _feeling better now. Thanks, honestly._

I couldn't help grinning.

"Merry friggin' Christmas yourself, Henderson", I muttered to myself as I searched my pockets for a light.


End file.
